Endgame
by Kate-The-Great-And-Powerful
Summary: I should have known she'd never let me outlive her. (TVFT Alternate Ending)
1. THERE CAN BE

**AN: Recap for anyone who hasn't read my other fic, The Victor From Twelve: The Capitol is forced to pull the last two tributes out of the arena or risk losing them both to a forest fire that had grown out of the gamemakers' control. While they're frantically trying to save at least one tribute in the hovercraft, one of them dies, leaving the other to become the victor. But it was an extremely close Games.**

 **In this 3-parter, I'm going to try out an ending I briefly considered for TVFT before I settled on the one above. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 1 _: THERE CAN BE_

If my spear had only hit its mark the first time, I wouldn't be clinging to the thin upper-branches of an evergreen to survive. I wouldn't be waiting tensely for my grip to fail, for the smoke to addle my brains and send me plummeting down into the fire below. I wouldn't be inching higher, higher, for fear of an axe blade connecting with my ankles.

The price I pay for missing the girl from One by a mile.

The branches up here are too skinny to hold my weight like this. I'm almost at peace knowing Emerald, below me, is having a similar problem, but it hasn't yet stopped her ascent. I kick at the Career as she comes closer. When it does little to help, I dare to let go with one hand and make a slash at her with my knife. Anything to keep her from grabbing me, from pulling me down.

The flames are rising higher, an upward draft sending a swarm of glowing ashes into the air. Emerald coughs so violently I'm convinced she's swallowed one of them. It only stalls her for a moment.

Miraculously, one of my kicks makes it to her head. She slides down half a foot in surprise, the hatchet falling from her hand. We both watch it plummet, disappearing below the smoke line. That's when her hands begin to tremble.

Her hold on the branch doesn't last long after that. One missed foothold, and suddenly she's slipping; she no longer has the strength to keep her grip.

 _I'm going to live_. I whisper in my mind. Her mouth forms an "O".

 _It's almost over_. It's hard to watch her fingers clamber for purchase against the bark.

 _One more kick would end this_ , I think, but I'm already grabbing for her hand.

She screams as she dangles above the flames, her voice as raw as an open wound. And she's too heavy; I can't hold her up. Our hands slick with sweat and grime, my strength sapped from scaling the tree, there's no way I can pull her back up by myself.

Suddenly, her hand slips out of mind. I reach down quickly, leaning away from the tree, trying to take a hold of her wrist as she falls, but she's dropping too fast. And I've leaned too far. Without warning, her weight jerks me out of the tree and into the blistering, smoke-filled air. It all happens in the same moment.

The heat grows more intense as we fall together, past the smoke and into the heart of the flames.

...

The air leaves my lungs as soon as I hit the ground, my skin blistering from the heat of the fire. I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm surrounded by the sounds of destruction. But after a moment, even the deafening noise of the fire fades away.

The next sound I hear is not the trumpets of victory. It's the steady beep of a heart monitor. My eyelids feel heavy, like I've gone weeks without sleep. But I know I must have been here for a while, because I can breathe. I can move, a little. I can even see, until the room's white walls start to hurt my eyes and I have to close them again. They were open just long enough to tell that I'm alone.

 _But I am alive. I'm a victor now._

The next time I'm aware of my surroundings, I find that I'm able to stay awake longer. I can eat, too, if only just a small amount. My arms are above the covers this time. The right one's bound tightly in a splint, the left riddled with needles and tubes in the bend of my elbow. I notice that my skin is grafted in patches, red, raw. I look like something created in a lab.

Days pass in the same routine—eating small portions, sleeping, watching my skin heal into something that looks more my own—until I receive my first visitor, a man clothed in the purple robes of a gamemaker. At first, I think he's come to congratulate me. As he nears my bed, his expression tells me otherwise.

"Hello, Mister Zane," he greets me, his voice a low rumble. "Welcome back."

When I don't respond, his dark eyes have time to scrutinize my bed-ridden form as he waits for me to speak. I feel self-conscious, knowing I must look like the arena chewed me up and spat me out. But I can't bring myself to reply. He can't be the first person I speak to. He can't be.

"I have some news." His tone doesn't make me feel at ease, and the way his accent hisses out the letter _s_ isn't helping, either. "It is old news. We, as a unit, voted to withhold this information from you until you were…" He looks at me. "…er, strong enough to absorb it."

 _Your unit never seemed to care about my health before._ I want to tell him, but I want him to continue more. I sit up slightly, wincing a little as I do.

"Currently," the gamemaker says, "That is, now and for the foreseeable future, the only people who know that you are alive exist inside this building, and within the President's mansion. Do you understand?"

It takes a minute to sink in. And still, I shake my head.

The gamemaker takes a deep breath. "We have not released the news of your victory to the public yet, because," he says, "When you fought Miss Addington on your last day in the arena, there was not a decisive victory."

 _Not a decisive—_ I blink, frowning. Something comes out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"I-I'm the victor." My lungs are still burning.

The purple-robed man begins to explain. And he makes it abundantly clear that no, I am not the victor. Because the margin of victory was not incredibly small; there was no margin of victory, because there was no victory. Emerald survived.

My face blanches, and I'm lost in the room's pale walls. I try to understand that I am sitting before one of the individuals who tried to engineer my destruction, alone, sturdy as a stick insect, ravaged with burn scars and broken ribs and other wounds that went much deeper, and I have not won the Hunger Games.

 _I have not won the Hunger Games._


	2. ONLY ONE

Chapter 2: _ONLY ONE_

A different gamemaker materializes at my bedside this morning, wearing white rather than the more traditional purple. It's obvious that she's been delegated the task of presenting me with The Rules.

Today is the day that ends it all, she says. I will be allowed one final visit with my team before the Games begin again, and one hour to prepare before my competitor and I are released into the empty Training Center, which is still stocked with all of its weapons and provisions from our training week. Once the doors are shut, we will stay inside the Center until there is a victor. It's enticingly simple, but it leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.

I can't believe they let me think I'd won.

 _60 minutes remaining._

"Alder!" Cardea stands up when I enter the Floor 12 apartment, flanked by two armored guards. My stylist's curly hair has been dyed the color of the sky, the same blue as one of the feast backpacks. Vega smiles and claps her hands at my arrival, her pristine smile more jarring than encouraging. Violet's stylist is notably absent.

Cardea rushes forward but doesn't quite hug me, maybe afraid she'll break my spine or damage something important. But I'm not made of glass. I throw my arms around her.

"You've done so well, Al," she tells me. "You've made it so far. You must be able to hold out just a little longer. I know you can do it."

"Thank you," I say into her hair, my voice shaking.

She pulls back to look at me, smiling. "There's that voice. See? You're ready to roll. You'll be back with us before the day is out."

"I certainly hope you're right, Cardea!" remarks Vega from her seat. "It's about time the world knows who their victor is! Are you prepared for today, Alder? Is there anything you need to do?"

 _I need to go home_. I shake my head.

"What do you suppose Emerald is doing right now?" the escort wonders. "Perhaps training? Or rewatching bits of the Games to learn from her mistakes, maybe we should give that a try—"

"Alder doesn't need to do anything right now." Cardea chastises her lightly as something awful occurs to me. I clear my throat, and both of their brightly colored heads turn in my direction.

"Will it be recorded?" I ask, my voice tight.

"The fight?" asks Cardea, and I nod. "Recorded, but not televised, dear."

"Ooh, wouldn't the rest of the city envy us, if they knew we were getting to watch you two?" Vega gushes. "Oh Alder, no one on the outside knows what really happened! The whole country thinks we're simply waiting for the victor to recover to give them some big grand reveal!"

My stomach turns. So, after they have their victor, they'll play it off as if one of us died in the fire. Certainly one way to avoid acknowledging the gamemakers' failure to produce a single victor in their finale. It's difficult for me to comprehend that my existence is something of a secret now, a secret that Vega seems absolutely tickled to know.

I take a seat beside my escort, feeling weak.

"This is better." Cardea assures me. "It must make it harder to fight, when all of Panem is watching. Today, there will be considerably less pressure."

 _I strongly disagree._ Televised or not, she must know that there's still a lot at stake here. The longer this visit lasts, the more I sense my anxiety consuming me.

"And speaking of today," my stylist proceeds carefully. "I brought you something a little more presentable to wear than those papery scrubs of yours."

She reaches into her silvery messenger bag and removes a set of folded clothes. I begin to reach out to take them, but when I realize what they are, I draw back my scarred hands as if they've caught fire.

Black shirt, brown pants, green jacket. It's the same outfit I wore in the arena.

 _No_. I shake my head almost violently.

"Alder," says Cardea gently. "You must wear it today. You're not going back into the arena, you just—"

"Why does he have to wear it, Cardea?" Vega butts in. "After all, it won't be televised, so what is it to the Gamemakers if he wears his hospital scrubs? Or goes in naked, for that matter?"

"He has to wear it." says Cardea. "Because they told me he has to wear it. They've asked the same of the other tribute."

Both of them turn to me when I stand up, as if waiting for me to chime in. Or to try and make a break for it. Which I do.

"He's running!" yelps Vega as I sprint down the hallway, toward the space that was once Violet's bedroom. I hear them coming after me, quicker in their high heels than I would have imagined.

The door does not lock, and I'm not strong enough to drag over the armchair or the bureau on my own. I throw my weight against the wood, hoping I can hold them off while I devise a means of escape.

 _Thud!_ Something hits the door. My eyes scan the room, trying desperate to ignore the traces of my district partner inside. The covers are still drawn back, from the last time Violet got out of her bed. Her pale green reaping dress lies folded on top of the bureau. Everything is just as she left it that morning. I rub at my eyes. The only other door leads to the balcony.

I fling myself from the door, almost tripping over a pair of white Training Center sneakers as I race through the room. I fumble with the latch, my fingers numb. I hear the bedroom door open behind me.

Someone calls for me to stop. The voice, an unmistakably masculine one, belongs to neither Cardea nor Vega. I hear heavy footsteps behind me, but I won't turn around, still working at the latch, which is decidedly not meant to be opened. White-gloved hands grab my shoulders, wrestling me to the floor. Choked, incoherent sounds are coming from my throat as I try to fight them off, but I'm no match for my guards.

I feel a pinprick near the base of my neck, and retreat back into silence.

 _15 minutes remaining._

When I become aware of my surroundings again, part of me starts to imagine I'm back in District Twelve, dozing in the room I share with Cedar and Graham. The sunlight normally falls on my face at around six, waking me in time to get ready for school. But today it's dark, and it's calm, and I can sleep the day away.

That fantasy collapses very quickly when Cardea sees that I've come to.

"Alder?" she asks cautiously. "Are you awake?"

I pry open my eyes and stare at her from the bed, feeling groggy and confused.

"They had to sedate you," says my stylist, "I've never heard you scream like that before."

There must have been a point where I would have been ashamed to act that way in front of Cardea. But I'm long past it now. After a moment, I notice the absence of the papery scrubs against my body, and know that they've put me in my tribute uniform. I tense up, grabbing fistfuls of Violet's duvet.

"We had to do it." I don't think she's sorry. "They'll want you in the Training Center in about fifteen minutes."

I sit up immediately, but the movement makes my head spin. I couldn't make another escape attempt now if I tried. I sink back against the headboard, defeated. Cardea purses her lips.

"I want to show you something, Alder," my stylist tells me. "You don't have to get up, just rest. Just watch the screen." She picks up a device the size of a graham cracker and presses a button, lighting up the television on the wall.

 _That's Violet's_. I think in vain. _Don't touch it_.

"Look," says Cardea, and to my alarm, I see my brother Graham on the screen.

"Alder is the youngest of us, yes," he's saying. "But he's smart. And hasn't he proven that in the arena? I think he has."

"What is this?" I ask in a low voice.

"You were in the top five," explains Cardea. "They sent a team to your district to interview your family and friends. It's new this year."

I find I'm unable to respond. The next family member up is Laurel.

"I used to tease him," she said. "But in a fun way, you know? Ask anyone with a sister. I'd joke that he was short, and I'd joke that he didn't talk a lot. But I'm out of things to tease him about now." She wipes at her eyes. "I just want him to come home."

I cover my mouth with my hands to prevent a sob from escaping. One after another, everyone I care about chimes in with something to say about me. Some have words of encouragement, others a story from back home. My two best friends, Rowan and Linden, tell Panem about the time I got stuck up on the roof of my house. My mother talks about how much hope I've given her over the weeks, how many times I've pulled through when she thought the end was near. My sister Betony makes up a fantastical story about me winning a footrace in a lightning storm.

"They've put him through so much over there." Last to speak is my brother Cedar, his voice shaking. "I was eligible, when they called his name. I know it should have been me."

I let out a sob, my shoulders trembling.

"Do you want me to turn it off?" asks Cardea. I shake my head fervently before she finishes asking, my eyes glued to the screen.

"I just thought," Cedar struggles to finish. "I thought I'd never see him again, and now there's a chance that he's coming back." He takes a deep breath. "I never would have made it this far. Please, if you're listening, just keep him safe. Let my brother come home."

 _5 minutes remaining._

 **AN: There will be one more chapter of Endgame, which I will hopefully be able to post sometime this week. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and followed!**

 **In the meantime, I have another story that I want to begin working on this summer, a partial SYOT called** ** _Luetis: The 39_** ** _th_** ** _Hunger Games_** **. I'm still short about ten tributes, so if anyone would like to submit a tribute or two, the list of available spots and the submission form are both on my profile! Just PM your form to me and I'll shoot you back a confirmation if your tribute made it.**


	3. VICTOR

**AN: I'm still looking for submitters for my partial SYOT,** ** _Luetis_** **! Available tributes are the girls from One, Three, Eleven, and Twelve, and the boy from Eleven. Tributes don't have to be bloodbaths, although at this point I am mainly looking for either very weak tributes or stronger tributes who would be interested in joining the Careers or the Anti-Careers. Submission form is on my profile!**

Chapter 3: _VICTOR_

The Training Center has never seemed so large.

They shut the door behind me, loud as I've ever heard it. The noise seems to reverberate for a lifetime in the artificially lit chamber before I finally hear the heavy lock slide into its place. The silence that follows wraps around me like a blanket.

There will be no countdown. No, we'll be picking up right where we left off, before I climbed that tree. Before I missed that throw. The Center is bright and cool as I remember it, but eerily vacant. Somewhere inside of this desolate place, Emerald is waiting for me.

I can't see her from where I stand. I can, however, see the gamemaker platform, where purple-robed spectators once looked down on us as we trained. Today, the balcony is occupied by our teams. Cardea gives me a small wave, which I don't return. Some part of my mind realizes that District One lacks a previous victor as well.

Tearing my gaze from our audience, I shuffle forward a few steps, away from the door. Still no sign of my competition. I wonder if I'll even identify her as the tribute I once knew. With my network of skin grafts, my hollow cheeks, my patchy hair, I no longer recognize myself in the mirror. Did the arena do to her what it did to me? Does she feel the same when she catches sight of her reflection?

I take a few more steps forward, braver, thinking maybe she's hidden herself away. But I should know better, by now. Careers will always show themselves.

I see her at last when she emerges from the shadows, and even from across the room, I know she's changed. Her long hair is gone, her hairline grafts a slightly darker shade of blonde than she used to be. Her skin is of the same patchwork quality as my own, except her seams are red with irritation; from exercise or fidgeting or who knows what she's been doing.

My heart begins to race as she takes her first steps toward me. She walks stiffly and with a pronounced limp, but she's not moving slowly. It looks like she hurt her back in the fall, which would be good news for me, if I were in much better shape. I single out the spears station and hustle with all of my strength. I'm weak on my feet and my breath comes in shallow puffs; I feel about as strong and durable as a piece of straw. I can only hope she's worse off.

I get to my weapon before she gets to me, but as soon as I take it from the rack, I know it's useless in my shaking hands. Just weeks ago, I could hurl a spear with enough strength and accuracy to hit my mark from fifteen meters away. Now I can barely lift one from its shelf, much less throw it at Emerald. The one thing I had going for me in the arena is gone.

I try to make it to the knife station, or better yet, find a decent place to hide. Out of nowhere, Emerald's fist connects with my face, and I crumple against a rubber target.

The girl from One is still bigger than I am; the arena didn't eat away at her, hollow her out like it did for me. Despite my allies' efforts to steal from the Careers, they never truly lacked provisions. Emerald pins me down easily, stunning me long enough to lock her hands around my throat.

But she doesn't squeeze.

"You tried to catch me," she says, her voice hoarse. I gulp in deep breaths, afraid each one I take will be my last. But she continues to talk; I continue to think about how her fingers are ready to crush my windpipe.

"I was going to die, and you tried to pull me back up." She brings her face closer to mine; her icy blue eyes seem to be the only part of her left unchanged. "Why?"

I say nothing, trembling. She expects this.

"Don't have an answer for me, huh?" Her grip tightens, and I try desperately to free my forearms from beneath the soles of her boots. She screams in frustration. "I-I killed your district partner! Why didn't you let me fall?!"

I realize, slowly, that she doesn't mean to kill me just yet. I feel no relief for it. I know that any effort to escape her will be pointless, so I rest my body. Resigned to my fate. Confusion flashes across her face when I go limp beneath her. Her fingers relax.

"I thought about you, when it was just the two of us." Her eyes bore into mine; I look away, afraid I'll dissolve under her stare. "You were so quiet... I always wondered if you'd scream when I killed you, or if you'd just stay mute."

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling tears on my cheeks. Somehow, this makes her angrier.

"Look at me! I'll never understand why it's not Julius lying here." The pressure returns and my head smacks against the floor. "Or Celestina. Or…or stupid Prime."

She's shaking now. I'm wheezing.

"God, he was a piece of work. But he would've kicked me down into that fire, Twelve. He would have loved to do that." She squeezes harder. "How did _you_ outlive him? How did you outlive them all?"

Panicking now, I struggle to get up. But Emerald doesn't move, doesn't speak again. Her grip grows tighter, tighter. I start to write apologies in my head. To my parents, my friends. To Cedar. Laurel. Betony. Graham. Linden. Rowan. To Violet, if I ever see her again; do killers go to the same place as their selfless, guiltless district partners? I would love to see her again.

 _Stay alive, okay?_ she told me once. As if my survival didn't mean her certain death.

I am ready to apologize to her.

Without warning, Emerald releases her hold on me. I wheeze, my lungs expanding, the world coming back into focus. When I can see again, my competitor is standing above me, with her hand extended.

I am afraid to look at her.

"Here are the conditions," she says. I can feel her eyes on me. "I'll give you a minute to get yourself a knife, and I'll take up one of my hatchets. Then we fight each other in the center of the room. No hiding, no sneak attacks, no extra weaponry. Just fighting."

I don't overlook the fact that this arrangement gives her the advantage. But far be it from me to pass up a chance to escape her long enough to get my hands on a means of protecting myself.

I accept her offer by taking her hand. She pulls me up too hard, not expecting me to be so light. I yank my arm away before she can run her hand along my scars. Her eyes narrow.

"You'll be easier to beat this time," she tells me flatly. "Without trees to climb, without the fire. I'll kill you quickly and we can both be done with this forever."

She turns her back on me, not expecting a response. I do not give her one, instead making my way to the knife station. Now that I'm free, I risk another glance up at our teams. Unable to hear us down here, they're looking at us curiously. They have no idea what was said.

I arm myself with a flat, triangular knife with an oblong handle. I've never held a blade like this before in my life, but having a projectile as my former weapon of choice, it's somewhat comforting to call a throwing knife my own. It fits almost naturally in my hand; I send a quick prayer to whoever's listening, in the hopes that I'll be quick to adjust.

"Are you ready?" asks Emerald as I reach the round center platform, where the Head Trainer made his opening remarks. My hand is shaking so violently I can barely hold onto my weapon.

Emerald grimaces. "You have to be, Twelve. You have to be ready."

I widen my stance, preparing to stand my ground. She only takes one step toward me, raising her hatchet, before I panic, flames dancing before my eyes. I hurl my knife at her with all the strength I can muster.

I almost miss again. I don't know if it's by skill or by luck that my knife lodges in her upper arm; Seven inches to the left, and it would have hit its mark. Emerald shouts and drops her hatchet, yanking out my blade with a grimace. Now I've done it. Just like in the finale, I am without a weapon.

"Is this what being fair is like?" Emerald nudges away her hatchet with her foot, slipping my knife into her belt. "It's very inconvenient."

Then, she lunges at me. I never reached proficiency in hand-to-hand combat during my time in the Training Center, but I know enough to duck, and I know enough to shove my elbow into her stomach. Winded, she sways and stumbles before righting herself, but I still don't have enough time to grab her discarded hatchet. She pounces while I'm bent over, tackling me to the floor.

"That wasn't fair, Twelve," she spits at me, her forearm pressing against my throat.

She reaches for my knife, but I catch her arm, digging my thumb into her wound. Emerald screams, shaking me off, but the blade is already in her hand. She shifts her weight on top of me as I struggle, situating herself in a way that stops me from moving; her boot crushing my wrist, her forearm leveling my shoulder, her weight pressing down on my stomach. She positions her weapon. With her attention otherwise occupied, I rip my arm free and grab the knife by the blade.

She makes a noise of surprise, of anger. I grit my teeth as my hand slides down the knife to the grip, closing around Emerald's fist, slick with blood. It isn't long before her alarm fades into amusement; she knows my grip will falter first. She leans on our hands, rolling onto my ribs, bringing the knife closer to my throat. She's crushing me.

I can no longer breathe, but her shift in weight gives me the time I need to turn the blade. It nicks my chin on its way up, resting between our faces. One lapse in strength, and it'll end up in someone's neck.

"Say something, damn you," says Emerald, baring her teeth in an awful smile. "Say something to me before one of us dies."

"Wh-what do you want me to say?" I choke out, struggling to stay conscious. "That I should have let you fall?"

"Yes!" she explodes, and the blade shifts up by a centimeter. With a horrible sound, the knife goes in and the world fades out, One's last breath hissing from her lungs.

" _Yes_."

There is no cannon, nor any announcement. They simply open the doors.

 **Fun fact: Alder was the one who died in this story until about ten minutes ago. I just couldn't do it to him. Thanks for reading. Drop me a review if you can, I appreciate every word.**

 **What I want to know: Do you prefer this ending, or the original?**


End file.
